


The Shirt

by DictionaryWrites2



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has A Penis (Good Omens), Belly Kink, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Coming Untouched, Face-Fucking, Food Kink, M/M, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:56:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites2/pseuds/DictionaryWrites2
Summary: This was an old shirt, of course, and he’d been a little more trim back then, but he hadn’t given it much thought, had merely…He was all but bursting from it: the silk was drawn tight over the twin swells of his chest, over the curve of his belly, and it was riding up, revealing the outward curve of his belly over the band of his trousers, the fabric drawn taut.“Bless, angel, are you trying to kill me?” Crowley demanded, and he rolled his hips against Aziraphale’s arse, grabbing at his belly from each side and dragging his fingers over the silk, his pointed chin digging into the meat of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You look delicious.”





	The Shirt

“Oh,” Crowley heard Aziraphale say from the next room.

“What?” Crowley asked, looking up from the Abbot & Costello record in his hands. They had chosen to have a clear out. That is to say,  _Crowley_  had chosen to have a clear out, and had promised Aziraphale a two-week holiday to Japan, six months ago, and Aziraphale had finally started joining in looking at things he should perhaps get rid of.

“It— Oh,  _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale said miserably, and Crowley set the record down, standing to his feet.

He stepped into the bedroom, and he looked at Aziraphale. He was dressed in his pyjama trousers still, an extremely soft and worn pair of flannel pyjamas Crowley had bought him for Christmas in 1922, and wearing a shirt he distantly remembered, but hadn’t seen in at least a decade or two. It was lilac silk, with a very wide collar – something from the seventies, Crowley supposed, as he stepped forward…

He came to Aziraphale’s shoulder, and looked over it, at the angel’s reflection in the mirror. Immediately, he exhaled, and pressed his body right up against the angel’s as he felt his knees give a sudden quake.

\---

Unlike Crowley, struck with sudden arousal, Aziraphale was disappointed. He  _liked_  this shirt. He remembered buying it, in a market stall in New York City back in ’69, and he’d had so many compliments on it, even from Crowley… Now, it didn’t really fit. He had put on weight, recently, a little more weight even than before – he and Crowley had been eating much more regularly, since coming out to the cottage, and Crowley  _cooked_  so often, and Aziraphale did…

He did  _like_  to eat.

This was an old shirt, of course, and he’d been a little more trim back then, but he hadn’t given it much thought, had merely…

He was all but  _bursting_  from it: the silk was drawn tight over the twin swells of his chest, over the curve of his belly, and it was riding up, revealing the outward curve of his belly over the band of his trousers, the fabric drawn taut.

“ _Bless_ , angel, are you trying to kill me?” Crowley demanded, and he rolled his hips against Aziraphale’s arse, grabbing at his belly from each side and dragging his fingers over the silk, his pointed chin digging into the meat of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You look delicious.”

“Oh,  _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale said sternly, although almost without meaning to, he blushed, red blood eking into his cheeks and staining the skin, the flush blooming on each side. “I look ridiculous, like meat stuffed into sausage casing—”

“You look  _hot_ ,” Crowley insisted, and his yellow gaze, hungry and eager, met Aziraphale’s in the mirror. His fingers came up to Aziraphale’s chest, grabbing at each side and playing with what he was far too polite to refer to as Aziraphale’s breasts, his thumbs flicking over the nipples through the silk, and Aziraphale exhaled, his eyes fluttering closed. “I’ve wanted you in tighter clothes for ages, but this, this is  _really_  tight…”

Crowley’s skin was burning, and he seemed so aroused, like  he couldn’t help but fidget as he shoved himself up against Aziraphale’s back, trying to touch him all over, kissing his shoulder, grabbing at his hips, his waist, his love handles, his  _stomach_.

“This was a favourite of mine,” Aziraphale said, trying his best to inject a little misery into it, but it was rather hard, with the demon all but grinding their bodies together.

“Well, it’s  _my_  favourite now,” Crowley said, and he stepped around Aziraphale’s body, dropping to his knees and—

“Oh!” Aziraphale cried out, but Crowley didn’t even look up: he grabbed Aziraphale’s belly on each side and buried his face in the front of it, mouthing over the buttons and letting his tongue flicker out to the bit where the gaps between them were baring the flesh beneath, the fabric barely held together, and Aziraphale heaved in a gasp. “Oh, my dear, that’s positively indecent, you really mustn’t—”

Crowley made a slurping sound as he  _sucked_  at a patch of skin, messy and wet and eager, and Aziraphale let out a whimper.

“Oh, Crowley, this was one of my favourites—”

“I’ll buy you another one,” Crowley said, and he dipped lower, dragging his tongue in a ticklish line over the base of Aziraphale’s belly where it overhung his trousers, and Aziraphale jumped, gasping and letting his hands settle on top of Crowley’s head. “Even tighter, even  _tighter_ —”

“You just want me to dress in clothes like yours,” Aziraphale said breathlessly as Crowley undid a button with his tongue and his teeth: the fabric burst apart, flapping open like a curtain in a high wind, and Aziraphale gasped at the sudden loss of tight pressure. Crowley’s tongue immediately pressed to the little mark the button had left on the soft flesh, digging into it, and Aziraphale—

He was aroused.

Hotly aroused, aroused in a way he never had been before, his skin alight. He had hardly expected Crowley to be so desperately eager: he had only wanted to commiserate, perhaps to have Crowley offer to buy him another shirt, when Crowley had been so eager to supplement his wardrobe, but—

But this was different, this was…

Crowley bit the underside of his belly, and Aziraphale grabbed at his hair.

“Oh, oh, my dear, my dear boy, you really must—”

“Busy,” Crowley said, and he undid another button, and then he bit down on the white and red marks from it, bit down hard, and Aziraphale heaved in a desperate gasp, but he wasn’t  _thinking_ , wasn’t  _thinking_ , and he breathed in too much: one of the buttons popped, and Crowley let out such a desperate noise that Aziraphale felt his own prick give a lurch in his trousers. “Oh, oh, I want to lick every part of you.”

Crowley licked at him again, licked and sucked and nipped at him, his fingers playing with his belly on each side, grasping at his hips, and his right hand slapped the skin—

“You beast,” Aziraphale gasped out, and he felt himself roll his hips forward slightly, plaintively, but Crowley wasn’t looking at his crotch, was focusing on his gut, still, just… His tongue was a sin in itself, and there was blood  _rushing_  down, rushing…

The silk was damp in places now, sweat-slick from Crowley’s sucking mouth, and he dragged at the two hems of the shirt and  _pulled_ , dragged at it, so that it was tight against his stomach and chest, and Aziraphale let out a noise. He grabbed at Crowley’s hair, at his shoulder, said, “Crowley, Crowley, you’ll ruin it—”

“It’sss fine, it doesssn’t fit,” Crowley hissed, and  _dragged_ : buttons popped from their threads one-by-one, flying across the room and just leaving the silk too tight on Aziraphale’s arms, his shoulders: his chest and stomach burst free, and Crowley grabbed at him, grabbed at him and  _tongued_ …

“Crowley, I need you, I need you to—”

“One second, one second,” Crowley moaned, biting down on a space of creamy-white flesh and  _marking_  it with his teeth—

Aziraphale could hardly help it. His prick had never been quite so engorged with blood, quite so hard, and he was  _desperately_  eager as he vanished his trousers away, grabbing Crowley by his hair and pulling him to suck his cock. Crowley let out a surprised moan, but when Aziraphale thrust into his mouth he opened it wider, his tongue wrapping about Aziraphale’s prick.

Usually, Crowley tried to do some clever things with his tongue, tried to show off and play with him, but Aziraphale was in no mood for it: the need he felt was urgent and overpowering, and he dragged Crowley right up against his crotch, thrusting against his  _throat_. Crowley was moaning, moaning and making sloppy, sucking noises: the moans vibrated against Aziraphale’s prick, and he grabbed at handfuls of Aziraphale’s thighs, at his arse, gripping and pulling at the pillowy flesh as Aziraphale choked him on his prick.

It was—

He’d never felt like this before.

He’d never felt such urgent, primal  _need_. He liked to ruin Crowley, certainly, liked to take sex slowly and surely, liked to draw it out and enjoy it, but this was a  _hunger_ , a  _desperation_ , a need, and he thrust himself down Crowley’s handsome throat, thrust against his face and felt Crowley’s eager cries give way to whimpers.

When Aziraphale came, it was a revelation, left his knees quaking as the orgasm racked his body, wonderful, honeyed heat bursting through him as he rode it out, heard Crowley choke and splutter and press  _even closer_ …

He pulled back, and he stared down at Crowley, who was breathing heavily, his skin asheen with sweat, come dribbling over his chin and his bruised lips, staring up at Aziraphale…

Aziraphale shivered, gently touching the side of Crowley’s cheek as the golden glow gave way to… fatigue. “Oh, my dear,” he whispered. “Oh, that was— I’m sorry, that was so disgraceful of me, I didn’t even give you the chance to… Why don’t I use my mouth on you, hm? I can—”

“No need,” Crowley said, slightly hoarsely, and he wiped his mouth on the back of his bare arm.

“No n— But your hands, they were busy—”

“Didn’t need ‘em,” Crowley mumbled, and  _he_  was blushing, now, his cheeks burning red as he got shakily to his feet. “You’ve never… You’ve never done that to me, it was so… So selfish, so  _commanding_. I felt like a toy.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, guilt flooding him as he reached up to cup Crowley’s cheeks. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry—"

“No, no,” Crowley said. “No, I… I want you to do that again. Not now, but—” Crowley sighed, his expression a mask of bliss. “I loved  _that_. And the shirt, too, the shirt…” He fell forward, against Aziraphale’s chest, nuzzling at it, and Aziraphale shakily leaned on him.

“I believe I require a lie-down,” he said.

“Carry me,” Crowley mumbled, and Aziraphale chuckled, but—

But Crowley deserved some soft treatment, after that, and he dragged him toward the bed.


End file.
